


Bedside Manner

by iiskaa



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Bickering, Cock Tease, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-19
Updated: 2011-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-21 13:38:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/225792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iiskaa/pseuds/iiskaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wheeljack's always blowing himself up, and Ratchet works himself to exhaustion. They can't look after themselves, so they have to look out for each other. Two-shot, non-explicit, non-sticky slash, fluffy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bedside Manner

**Author's Note:**

> Old fic is old. First posted as one-shots to fanfiction.net and LJ in December 2008.

Wheeljack onlined his optics to the familiar rust-orange ceiling of medbay.

"What happened?" he asked – only, no, he didn’t. The words came out as a staticky croak and Ratchet was hovering over his berth in an instant, optics burning close to white beneath his chevron.

“Wheeljack,” the medic started, voice tight with relief before he reined the emotion in and his worried features morphed into a scowl. “Took your sweet time coming to,” he grumbled, picking up a tool from a tray beside the berth. “Can you feel this?”

“Mmf!” Wheeljack twitched as Ratchet prodded a bare circuit. He felt disoriented, as he always did when he came online in medbay to Ratchet’s hovering and mood swings. “Ratchet. What happened?”

“Oh, nothing out of the usual,” Ratchet said with sarcasm plain for the inventor to hear. “Primus only knows what you were building, but it exploded in your face, just like that EMP device two weeks ago, just like the energon converter last quartex. How’s this feel?”

“Ow! It hurts!”

“Good. That means your electrical pathways are healing.” Ratchet frowned at him grimly before putting down his tool and closing the panel on Wheeljack’s torso. “Do you want to hear the damage report?”

Wheeljack winced under Ratchet’s glare. “Not really.”

Ratchet leaned over him. “Well, you’re going to hear it. One of your primary fuel lines was ruptured. You had critical energon loss, power surges, lacerations to the plating of your upper body and arms, concussion damage – I had to overhaul your sensory networks. _And_ ,” he went on, jabbing a finger in Wheeljack’s face, “all but reconstruct your left knee from scrap parts.”

“Not so bad, then. Is that all?”

Ratchet stiffened and glanced significantly toward the tray piled with his heaviest wrenches and spanners.

“Come on, Ratch’,” Wheeljack said quickly, anxious to draw Ratchet’s attention back to himself. “I almost blew myself up. You should be _nice_ to me.”

He found that he could move his arm easily, and he reached his hand out to touch Ratchet's thigh.

Ratchet didn’t relax his tense stance, but didn’t slap Wheeljack’s hand away, either.

"Is that what I should do? Kiss you better? Cater to your every need?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

Ratchet halted the upward movement of Wheeljack’s hand. “Too bad being ‘nice’ to you never seems to _teach_ you anything.”

Wheeljack’s optics dimmed. "You're really angry," he said.

And Ratchet was, but still, he plucked the hand from his thigh and rubbed his thumb over the fingers.

"I was _worried_. When Skyfire carried you in here – I was _worried_.”

"Come on, Ratch’,” Wheeljack grinned up at him, “You know I'm indestructible."

The look on Ratchet's face hardened.

"I wouldn't be so flip about it. You know if you weren't laid up in medbay, I'd blister the paint right off your aft."

Wheeljack's fins flared brightly. "So when do I get out?"


	2. Ball-bearing Blues

“Drink this.”

Ratchet startled at the voice and looked up in irritation from the energon cube unceremoniously deposited in the middle of the blueprint he’d been studying, obscuring a diagram of brachial plexus circuitry. With his concentration on the work in front of him interrupted, he turned a scowl on the mech responsible.

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, you didn’t show up in the canteen.” Wheeljack’s fins dimmed ever-so-slightly at the sharp tone Ratchet used, making him wince in guilt as he belatedly remembered that he’d promised the other mech he’d meet him. “I thought you might be low on fuel.”

“Oh, slag, ‘Jack. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. You can take your break now,” Wheeljack said, and nudged the energon cube toward him.

“Can’t, ‘Jack. I don’t have _time_ now.” He hated the disappointed look Wheeljack gave him, but there was nothing for it. “Prowl’s left arm’s still only functioning at eighty-three percent and I need to figure out what’s causing that power drop before he has to go into battle again...”

“No," Wheeljack interrupted, "You need to refuel.” When Ratchet opened his mouth to protest, Wheeljack folded his arms across his chest plate. “Don’t give me that look. I _know_ you skipped morning rations again, and you won’t do Prowl or _anyone_ any good if you keel over from energon depletion. You’re taking a break, and that’s final.”

“’Jack,” he started, but the other mech’s body language screamed refusal to back down, and he knew there was no use arguing when Wheeljack glared at him like _that_. “Fine. _One_ breem.”

Wheeljack rewarded him for his concession with a smile that glowed in his optics as he snagged Ratchet by the arm and all but dragged him to the back of the medbay and into his office, fussing all the way. “Honestly, Ratchet, you’d think a slagging medic would take better care of himself.”

“Take care of myself?” he snorted. “That’s what I keep _you_ around for.”

“I think you keep me around for more than that.”

“Hmph.”

The sound of the door sliding shut registered dimly in the back of his processor as Wheeljack steered him toward a chair meant for visitors and pushed him into the seat. His hands clutched the energon cube Wheeljack gave him, but his optics fell on more schematics spread out over his desk. Spotting a print-out of scan results he’d taken earlier that morning, he leaned forward for a better look before a hard pinch to his chevron jerked his attention back to the mech in front of him.

“Drink,” Wheeljack ordered.

He did as he was told, if only to satisfy Wheeljack so he could get back to work. But as the fuel hit his tank, he rumbled appreciatively in spite of himself, and Wheeljack didn't quite manage not to look as amused as he was.

“Should have left you to run yourself empty. It would’ve served you right for standing me up.”

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Hmm,” Wheeljack appeared to consider his answer. “You’ll have to make it up to me,” and before he could do more than blink, Wheeljack reached for him. Palms slid over plating, almost making Ratchet choke on a mouthful of energon. “You can start by telling me you won’t work late tonight.”

“’Jack!” he gasped, energon sloshing over the brim of his cube as Wheeljack settled himself on Ratchet’s lap. “Cut it – Ah! Oh – _pit_. Define late.”

“Think you can get out of here by seven?”

“Earth time? Nineteen hundred hours? No slagging way.”

“Come on, Ratch’.” Wheeljack’s fingers traced a seam from chest plate to waist. “How much work do you have to do?”

“Plenty,” he muttered, suppressing a moan. And he did, but Wheeljack was right – between backlogged paperwork and Prowl's arm and a recent spate of mechs visiting his clinic with minor injuries, he _hadn’t_ been taking care of himself, as he tended not to do with or without another mech to do it for him – and Wheeljack’s hands on his chassis felt _so_ good. “I’ll try for nine.”

“What, is it wrench polishing night?” Ignoring the warning look Ratchet gave him, Wheeljack let his fingers trail to the gap at the top of his thigh. “I guess it’ll do. Nine it is, then. _Earth time_.”

Ratchet’s optics flickered as he tipped back the last of his energon, enjoying what Wheeljack was doing to him. But only for a moment, as Wheeljack pulled the empty cube from his hand without warning and stood.

With a strangled gasp, he onlined his optics just as Wheeljack was reaching the door. His circuits ached for the other mech's touch. “What are you doing?” he groaned. “Wheeljack! You'd better get your aft back over here!”

Wheeljack turned to look at him, one hand on his hip, grinning - even with his mask on he couldn’t hide it, what with the scrap-eating way his fins flashed. “Uh-uh. Your breem’s up.”

“Oh, you slagging, rusted _glitch!_ ”

Well used to Ratchet’s bluster, Wheeljack was clearly unimpressed. The door hissed open for him. “Twenty-one hundred hours, or you can _forget_ about getting any tonight.”

He thought about telling Wheeljack just where he could shove it, but quailed at the thought of spending the night on a spare berth in his own medbay.

Wheeljack hovered in the doorway, watching him expectantly.

“Fine, you dirty slagger. Twenty-one hundred on the dot.”


End file.
